


Just Human

by Shared_Shield



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Nightmares, Post Mission, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-OT3, Storms, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 18:13:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12799638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shared_Shield/pseuds/Shared_Shield
Summary: They take on mission after mission, eliminate target after target and keep on saving the world. While it all seems like rainbows and butterflies, Napoleon has a hard time coping.But he's lucky to have partners like Illya and Gaby.





	Just Human

**Author's Note:**

> Looks like I'm drowning in another fandom, yay!
> 
> I spun this little thing together during several nights AND did the editing at night while having several other things to do, read, write, etc, soo... yeah, there are probably still like a hundred mistakes. Feel free to point them out!!  
> I don't have any first-hand experiences with PTSD, I got all my knowledge from literature and films, please excuse inaccuracies.
> 
> TW for vomiting, nightmares, some light body horror, war flashbacks
> 
> Enjoy and scream to me at tumblr (shine-and-rise-sammy)

The water running down the sink was of a reddish-brown color and Napoleon felt sick just looking at it. He scrubbed furiously at his hands, but the dark residues under his nails just didn’t go away and the calluses in his palms stayed a tinge darker than they usually were.

Despite what most people thought, Napoleon’s hands weren’t soft. The time at the front made them rough. Cold had bitten mercilessly into the skin of the teen, the metal of the rifles had burned it and even years after that, the years of artistic burglary, tact and flair hadn’t given his hands their softness back.

But Napoleon took care of his hands like he did with the rest of his appearance. He kept his nails well-groomed and used an expensive French lotion, that Illya called the biggest decadence of capitalism. 

Napoleon continued to scrub his hands until they were of an angry red, burning and numb at the same time. But they still felt dirty, he still felt hot, dark red blood running over them, they were still sticky and-

He collapsed in front of the toilet, retching and gasping. The bile was burning at the back of his throat, his stomach rebelled desperately against its contents, but there was nothing to bring back up but some water and the scotch he drank at the bar, where they met up with their mark.

Things had gotten messy. The smell of gun powder still burned in Napoleons nose and he still saw the mark’s shocked expression when he had shot him. His eyes had been brown- or grey? Maybe a dark blue mixed with grey? Napoleon tried to recall the face, but there were too many, too many missions that had been successful, too many shocked expressions, too much blood, too many times he had pulled the trigger…

The choked sound that escaped his throat echoed in the pristine bowl of the toilet and Napoleon prayed Gaby was too occupied with other things to hear him. He was glad Illya stayed on the scene to guide in the guys from clean-up. The Russian would definitely have heard him, and Napoleon didn’t feel like explaining that the reason for him hugging the toilet consisted of the remaining dirt on his hands.

But Gaby wasn’t otherwise occupied and knocked softly on the door, after Napoleon’s stomach had convulsed again.

“Solo? Are you alright?”

“’M splendid, Gaby, thank-“, his stomach cruelly betrayed him.

Gaby stepped into the bathroom, which was filled with a sharp stench and knelt down beside Napoleon, rubbing his back as he retched again.

When he was done, Napoleon rested his head on his arm clutching the bowl and looked at his partner out of the corner of his eye.

“It’s probably just food poising”, he said before she could open her mouth. The sorrow shining in her brown eyes made his skin crawl.

“You didn’t eat anything but the toast this morning.”

Napoleon groaned inwardly. You couldn’t lie to a spy, especially not to one with a bullshit-detector as precise as Gaby’s.

“The smell of the fish Peril had for lunch was probably enough”, he tried to joke, but the girl from East Berlin just frowned.

“I called for extraction, but they don’t make until tomorrow morning due to the storm. We are to stay put”, softly she carded her fingers through the damp strands of hair that had fallen into Napoleon’s eyes. “Should I call a doctor?”

Napoleon let out a huff.

“Peril would never let me live that down.”

“He wouldn’t say anything, and you know it”, Gaby got up and filled the glass that usually held their tooth brushes with water.

“I’m not taking any chances here, Gabs”, Napoleon flushed, shut the lid and sat down on top of it, accepting the glass. The scolding look Gaby gave him reminded him of the times he _accidently_ forgot to do his homework for school and got reprimanded by his teachers.

Gaby sighed inaudibly, only the movement of her shoulders betrayed her. Then she let her fingers slide over his cheek and turned to leave the bathroom.

“Take a shower, you’ll feel better afterwards. Illya will be back soon and then we can look for something to eat.”

 

Napoleon did as he was told, but Gaby’s promise crumbled like a card house. The warm water felt wrong, it couldn’t wash off all the blood and the filth that still stuck too him and when he closed his eyes the water was red as it ran down his body. Afterwards he felt worse than before.

He put on his slacks, a fresh shirt and a waist coat, but did without a tie and a jacket. Nevertheless, Gaby raised her eyebrows at him when he exited his bedroom. The white shirt had seemed pristine, unmarked, but now, after noticing Gaby’s critical look, it just felt like the blood-stained shirt he wore before.

Napoleon stepped into the kitchen to start the preparations for dinner and met Illya standing in front of the counter and chopping vegetables.

“What are you doing?”

Illya frowned at him. “I am making dinner.”

The American rolled his eyes. “I can see that. The question is why are you making dinner?”

Now, Illya let go of the knife and turned to him, while drying his hands with one of the dish rags.

“Gaby told me, you weren’t feeling good. And you don’t look very good now. So. I’m making dinner and you go sit down and rest.”

Provocatively, Napoleon began to pull back one of the chairs of the dinette, but Illya stared at him with eyebrows nearly up to his hair until Napoleon gave in and returned to the small living room like a kicked dog.

He sat down on the shabby sofa beside Gaby, who looked over the crossword puzzle of today’s newspaper. The wind had picked up and rattled the shutters, the rain pattered against them and tuned out the record that was playing.

Gaby tucked at his rolled-up sleeve and Napoleon obeyed, pillowed his head in her lap, slipped of his shoes to prop his feet against the armrest and lazily watched Illya moving in the kitchen. She carded her fingers through his hair like she did in the bathroom, but stopped in between two strokes to feel his forehead.

“You don’t have a fever, but you’re still so pale”, she murmured only for him to hear, “Take a nap. I’ll wake you for dinner and we’ll see if you feel up to eat something.”

He made an indistinct humming noise, but refrained from closing his eyes. Napoleon was tired, bone tired even, his eyes were burning and there was a chill in his bones, that neither the shower nor Gaby’s warm hands could chase away.

But Napoleon knew what he would see if he closed his eyes. Dead bodies, covered in blood. Body parts, scattered around him. He would hear the screams of the wounded, the grief of those who were left behind, deafening shots and the bang of bombs that would mix with the rumble of the thunder which rolled over their apartment building.

So, Napoleon followed Illya’s work in the kitchen. The Russian cut the leftover meat from yesterday’s dinner and added it to what seemed to become some sort of stew. Despite the wariness Napoleon nursed towards eastern European cooking, it smelled good.

Keeping his eyes open became more difficult with every minute Napoleon watched his partner, but he couldn’t allow himself to give in. Not now, when his partners could witness the horrors inside of him. He trusted them, he did, Gaby’s hands in his hair were so soft and tender it made something in his chest flutter he had thought dead since the war. But he couldn’t burden them with the weight he had to carry. It was his guilt that weighed him down, Gaby and Illya both had their own worries after all.

Before Gaby carefully shook his shoulder, Napoleon had been staring into space, lost to the world. When he felt her touch, he startled so bad, he almost knocked his head into Gaby’s. For a second, she seemed shocked by his severe reaction, but her lips formed a soft smile and she pressed a kiss to Napoleon’s forehead previous to helping him sit up.

He didn’t take the bowl with stew Illya offered him. Nursing a cup of chamomile tea, that was so old it tasted dusty, Napoleon pressed himself deep in the cushions of the sofa with his knees drawn up to his chest. He made a rather pathetic sight, he was aware of that, but at this moment he just couldn’t care less. 

Illya and Gaby didn’t comment on his position, on the Napoleon who was so very not himself it frightened even the Russian, but they did share some meaningful glances above his head. Their mission had been a success, the target had been eliminated, no civilians were harmed, they got out of it without a scratch and, yet Napoleon looked so miserable one could think the world was lost to evil. 

But Illya knew, it was exactly that what weighed Solo down. They went in, killed the bad people and saved the world. Simple, if you put it like that, nevertheless it was everything but heroic or easy. And telling themselves it was the right thing to do, it only helped so many times. 

Although they meant danger, although their enemies worked to damage life and belongings, they were still people. Men with wives and sons, with mothers somewhere, with friends who cared or maybe just their neighbors who smiled at them when they took out the trash. 

At the KGB Illya had learned to blend those details out, to forget about them. It had been only the mission, that had been of importance. Illya knew Napoleon had learned to kill in order to survive. He knew his partner had been forced to kill faceless men before he was legally permitted to drink. And he knew the scars this could leave.

 

The power went out just as they finished their dinner. There was a deafening crack of thunder, a flash of lighting so bright it blinded them through the shutters and then there was   
pure and utter darkness with only the rain pattering against the windows and the wind howling.

“I’ll get flashlight”, Illya announced before he carefully maneuvered his way around the coffee table and the sofa to his bag. One second later the room was illuminated again, sparsely though, but you could make your way through the apartment without the imminent danger of breaking your neck.

“I think I saw some candles in one of the shelves”, Gaby got up and started to search the cabinets, the cone of light from Illya’s flashlight steadily following her movements.

The thunder had startled Napoleon out of his head space and now he was twitchy, restless, needed something to occupy himself with, before the dark started closing in on him.   
He got up and started rummaging through the commode across the shelf Gaby was searching. Illya kept his flashlight trained on the girl and Napoleon was glad for the romantic involvement his partners where in because it kept them from looking at him and from noticing how his shoulders shook as he frantically ransacked drawer after drawer. The twilight painted ugly figures to the wall, from time to time the whole room was cruelly lit up by a flash of lighting and the rumbling thunder pulled him back to the front, to those dark nights, only filled by screams, explosions tearing through the too hot air, back to-

“Found them!”, Gaby’s exclamation brought him back to reality, back in the presence of his partners.

The stumps were meager and when enlightened they only drew their faces into grotesque masks. 

“Maybe is better if we go to bed. Has been a long day, extraction will be early tomorrow morning, let’s catch some rest now”, Illya frowned when the dishes had been cleared off the table and they had returned to the living room, each of them nursing a glass of cheap scotch.

Gaby pulled a face and Illya laughed fondly.

“We can celebrate when we’re back, Chop Shop Girl”, he said, tucking a stray strand of her behind her ear.

They did that usually, after having completed a mission. Either there was enough time at the location or they met after the debriefing at one of their apartments and then they had drinks, Gaby pulled Napoleon off his seat to dance, sometimes Illya would join them, moving awkwardly to the music with the sole purpose of luring some giggles out of Gaby.

Napoleon knew their ritual helped carry the guilt, it shared it between them and made it easier. He would have preferred it to spend the night drinking and laughing, but Peril clearly wouldn’t take a no for an answer, he had already disappeared into the bathroom.

Gaby eyed him over the rim of her glass. Neither of them had objected when Napoleon had poured himself a drink, yet he hadn’t taken one sip of it.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”, she asked, having noticed this particular detail.

“I’m fine. Stomach’s still a little queasy, but it will wear off till morning”, Napoleon tried to sound like his usual suave self, but failed spectacularly. His voice was hoarse and cracked, he shivered pathetically when a strong gust of wind rattled the shutters so violently, sending a wave of chilly air through the apartment.

Gaby vacated her spot on the armchair and sat down beside him, feeling his forehead again. Napoleon followed the movements of her hands with his eyes, but did little to stop her.

“Hmm… Still no fever. Maybe you’re coming down with something.”

“Let’s hope not. Who would pull you out of danger if I had to stay in bed?”, his snarky remark did its job, Gaby laughed and shook her head, sorrow easing out of her posture.

 

Soon after that, each of them had settled into their bed, in Illya’s case the sofa, the Russian had insisted Napoleon should take the remaining bedroom, and quiet settled into the apartment.

Solo stared at the dancing flame in front of him. He had taken one of the candles with him and set it on the nightstand. He hoped the warm light would keep some of the nightmares away. But he wasn’t granted with that kind of luck.

 

It was around three in the morning, Illya had caught a glimpse at his watch when another stroke of lighting bathed the living room in harsh, white light, when a strangled noise erupted from Solo’s room.

At first the Russian thought the noise had come from outside. A creaking hinge maybe, or an animal, frightened by the still raging storm. Then the noise reached his ears again, louder and sounding much more _human_.

He got up from his makeshift bed on the couch and tiptoed carefully to the door behind which the American laid. Illya knew Solo was a light sleeper, just like him, and if he happened to find some rest, he didn’t want to wake him from it.

Napoleon had not only looked tired this evening, but wrung out, shoulders hanging, entirely lacking the effort to put up a show or a mask. He never let his shield slip, unless he wasn’t able to hold it up anymore due to alcohol or injury. The real Solo was a rare sight, that had to be captured, because it held so many layers, so much more depth, than the shell Napoleon used to shield himself from anyone and anything.

But today, Napoleon had displayed, willingly or not, all the burden he carried, all the guilt weighing him down. Illya wasn’t sure if Gaby had noticed, but he had. He had recognized the lost look in Napoleon’s tired eyes.

The room was pitch-black when Illya opened the door. The candle had burned out a long time ago. Napoleon trashed in his bed, Illya could hear the shuffling of the sheets and a low moan that escaped Solo’s throat. The Russian enlightened his own candle and slowly made his way to the bed, contemplating if he should wake the man or not.  
He could hurt himself being trapped in the nightmare, he could hurt Illya if he woke Napoleon too quickly. Thinking this his decision was made.

“Cowboy?”, he asked in a low voice. The light of the candle illuminated the bed, the American’s face was distorted into a mask of horror, his hands gripped the sheets so tight, his knuckled turned white.

“Solo?”, Illya whispered again, he noticed the fast movement of Napoleon’s chest, heard his panting. He placed the candle on the nightstand to have his hands free in case he had to hold his partner down.

Softly he placed his hand on Napoleon’s left bicep.

“Napoleon?”

 

Napoleon jerked awake with a desperate gasp for air. His chest hurt, his legs cramped, and he could feel how his nails bored into his palms. He needed to run, he needed to get away, but something was holding him down, he was going to die, they were coming, they were going to get him and he was going to end up in the chair again and-

“Napoleon!!”

Suddenly, Illya.

Illya?

The Russian was kneeling on top of him, Napoleon was captured between his thighs and Illya’s hands were pressing him into the mattress. With force but gentle at the same time.

“Illya?”, Napoleon breathed.

“Yes, Cowboy, I’m here, you’re okay, you’re safe”, he leaned back and released Napoleon from his hands, but kept one on his chest as if he wanted to check his heartbeat.

Napoleon leaned back into the pillows and brought his hands up to his face, desperately trying to slow his heartbeat and breathing. Illya let out a relieved sigh. 

It had been close, Solo had been out of his mind, screaming and moaning, scrambling to get away from Illya’s hands who had just tried to help him.

“Boys?”, Gaby stood in the doorway, candle in one hand and rubbing her eyes with the other one. “Are you okay?”

“We are. Cowboy had nightmare, but-“

“Napoleon?”

Gaby interrupted him and stepped up to Solo’s bedside, the light of her candle etched the lines of worries deeper into her skin. She kneeled down beside him and began to stroke his hair, muttering sweet nothings of reassurance. Illya hadn’t noticed Solo moving, but the man had curled into himself, hiding his face from his partners.

Only then Illya felt the soft tremors that shook the mattress underneath him. Startled he climbed off the bed. Illya knew first handedly how horrible these night terrors could be, how shaken one could feel after having woken from one, and he had shed his fair share of tears when the pictures his mind provided had been too much.

But he never comforted one in this position, he never had been comforted. Seeing Napoleon so vulnerable, so hurt, so… desperate, it made his heart hurt. Illya noticed this emotion with quite some puzzlement. When did he start to feel so… so much for his partner?

Gaby still comforted Napoleon with soft whispers, but she looked up at Illya with a gesture that clearly said ‘Do something!!’.

The Russian felt how his hands got a little wet. He was nervous, bordering helpless. Desperately he tried to remember what to do when someone needed comfort. He couldn’t recall the last time he was comforted. It was probably during the time before the KGB had recruited him. Suddenly he found a picture in his memory, so clear, a memory so fresh, it could have happened yesterday.

Illya climbed back into the bed, but this time, he laid down behind his partner. With careful movements, he coaxed Napoleon out of his rigid, curled up state, he turned him around and let him curl up again, this time against his chest.

Gaby climbed into the bed as well, spreading the blanket over the three of them and snuggled against Napoleon’s broad shoulders. She kept on carding her fingers through his hair, but took Illya’s hand with her free one. The two of them shared a look. Tonight, they would carry the weight under which Napoleon had stumbled.

 

When Illya awoke, it was silent.

Not only the room was quiet, but there was silence outside too. No rattling, no rain, nothing. He opened his eyes a little and saw a sunray filter through a crack in the curtains.  
The mattress right beside him was empty, Gaby laid at the other side of the bed, still sleeping peacefully, entangled in the blanket. Their hands had parted during the night, but her feet pressed against Illya’s shins.

Careful not to wake her, he slipped out from under the covers and padded through the apartment looking for Napoleon.

Illya found him in the bathroom standing over the sink. He looked a little better that morning, still pale and with dark smudges under his eyes, but more calm and collected. His hair wasn’t styled yet, it was still messy, and some curls were hanging into Napoleon’s eyes, but Illya thought it looked better than with the usual ton of pomade. But his outfit was complete again, with waistcoat and tie and jacket, which was currently laying on top of the sofa’s backrest.

When Napoleon looked into the mirror, he found Illya’s blue eyes staring back at him.

They held their gaze for a few seconds, before they turned away simultaneously. Napoleon grabbed razor and shaving cream and started to work against the dark stubble on his cheeks while Illya stepped inside the bathroom and sat down on the closed toilet.

The American stopped his doing to frown at his colleague, but Illya stayed silent, wanted Napoleon to make the first step addressing what had happened last night.  
“I’m sorry for waking you up”, he said eventually. “You can quit your staring now, Peril, it’s not going to happen again.”

Carefully he moved the sharp blade across his cheek, avoiding another look at Illya.

“Did you ever think about getting help?”

Napoleon stopped moving, but still didn’t tear his eyes from his reflection.

“Help for what?”

“Don’t make fool of me, Cowboy. You know what I mean.”

“How do you imagine that happening?!”, now he turned to Illya, eyes hard and mouth set into a straight, tight line. “Should I have told my fellow soldiers how I couldn’t sleep at night? The thieves I worked with? Sanders? You do not talk about these things, _Peril_ , you, of all people, should know that. Or did you get cuddles at the KGB? Did Oleg listen to you crying about Mummy working Daddy’s friends?”

Illya took a deep breath, forcing calming air in and out of his lungs. Napoleon didn’t mean that, not really. He tried to hide all his hurt, his weaknesses, himself from Illya, wanted to protect himself. The Russian knew all this, that it was just a defense mechanism, but it was hard to ignore it.

“Stop taking this out on me, when I try to help you, Napoleon. Gaby hates to see you hurting. And I do too.”

Napoleon stared at him dumbfounded. For once, his smart mouth didn’t have a snarky comment, a snappy remark. He grabbed a towel from the basin and wiped off the left over shaving cream. Then he threw it into the sink.

“I’m sorry”, he mumbled, “I… You shouldn’t have seen this.”

“It’s okay. We’re all just human.”

Napoleon let put a tired laugh, then staggered back to slide down the tiled wall. Illya got to his feet to sit down beside his friend. Their shoulders brushed, their knees were pressed together but they did nothing to get out of each other’s space. 

“We won’t use any of this against you”, Illya said, his voice a low rumble.

“I know, I just… I had it all locked away for so long, and now…”, he shrugged and buried his head in the crook of his folded arms. 

Illya hesitated for a second, his hand hovered awkwardly above Napoleon’s shoulder, but he let it drop and squeezed the warm muscles. Napoleon leaned into his touch.

“We can ask Waverly for some time off. We’ve been on missions without pause. And after all, you know how he can’t deny Gaby anything.”

They chuckled and stayed quiet after that. It didn’t take long until there was fuss in the bedroom. Gaby had woken up and was probably missing the warmth of her partner bodies in bed beside her.

“Boys?”, she asked sleepily when she found them in the bathroom, “Are you alright?”

“We’re good. Peril and I were just saying that we’re due for a holiday”, Napoleon smiled up to her. It was a small smile, but genuine. The true Napoleon, sheepish and a little shy.

Gaby’s frown turned into a gleeful laugh and she crashed down onto them to pull them into tight hug.

They stayed like that for some time, a tangle of limbs on the cold, hard bathroom floor, but Napoleon was okay with that. It felt so much better than anything in this world had in a very long time.


End file.
